


they're burning all the witches (even if you aren't one)

by elsaclack



Series: collateral beauty [6]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Action, Amy is a vigilante anti-hero (sorta), Case Fic, Desperate Rosa Diaz, F/M, Hurt Jake Peralta, Protective Amy Santiago, Violence, but enough to be a trigger, mentions of character torture and blood, nothing exceedingly graphic, rosa is a good friend and partner, who helps jake solve cases he otherwise wouldn't be able to solve as quickly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-08 21:05:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18902635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsaclack/pseuds/elsaclack
Summary: Her chest is heaving and she’s blinking rapidly, but she’s no longer scrambling to get away from him. “Look, there - there are bad guys, and there are villains. There’s crime, and then there’sevil. He -” she points to Jake’s phone still clutched in his hand “- is pure, unadulterated evil. Everything he stands for, everything he’s involved in, is evil. You need to let this go.”“I can’t. Because those victims have families and those families deserve answers. And this guy deserves to be brought to justice. Him being evil is all the more reason for me to keep pursuing this. Someone has to bring him down.”“Not you, Peralta.” she says firmly. “You’re not gonna be able to do this alone.”“I won’t be alone, I’ll have -”“Diaz won’t be enough,” she snaps. “He’s cunning and cruel and if he finds out that you’re pursuing him, neither one of you will stand a chance.Please, Jake,” her voice cracks, and he’s paralyzed by the desperation in her eyes. “Don’t pursue this. Drop it. Forget it ever crossed your desk.Please.”“Okay,” he hears himself say. The desperation has not diminished. “Okay, I’ll drop it. I promise.”(He doesn't drop it.)





	they're burning all the witches (even if you aren't one)

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY YEAH SO this was originally gonna be part of the reputation series i started the other day but it quickly spun out of control and now it's its own universe and i just,,,couldn't put it in that series bc it's really captured me and i wanted to do it justice and let it stand on its own
> 
> i don't even know what else to say honestly lmfao this fic wiped me out!!! i hope u guys like it!!!
> 
> shout out to @startofamoment for being the best cheerleader ever and hyping me up on this fic!!!!! ur an angel and i love u with my whole entire heart

“This is a bad idea.”

Despite the roar of the passing trolley and the responding volley of honks from upheld traffic, Jake knows she heard him. Her back is to him and she makes no move to acknowledge him, aside from a slight tilt of her head and a jump of her shoulders in repressed laughter.

“I told you to meet me in the park,” he tries again as he approaches, lowering his voice accordingly. She still hasn’t turned; he’s afforded a rare view of the back of her head, eyes following the waterfall of hair that falls halfway down her back in slow, tantalizing waves. “Why’d you change the location?”

“First of all,” she says coolly, “when have I _ever_ done what you told me to do?”

He barks out a laugh as he drops off the stoop, closing his eyes as the sound echoes back to him off the other side of the underpass. Pedestrians and vehicle traffic intermingle and pass before them; despite his misgivings, he has to admit, this is a much better place to blend in and go unnoticed.

And blending in is the most important thing to Amy Santiago. She’s looking straight ahead but her expression is relaxed, and after a moment of studying her profile, he follows her lead. “Secondly,” she says once he’s focused on the graffiti on the far end of the underpass, “I got a tip that there might be some action here later. I wanted to be early.”

“So punctual,” he says with a smile. “I’m assuming that it’s action we’ll hear about later?”

“Maybe.”

He shakes his head, still smiling, and leans forward to plant his elbows on his knees. “Well, I appreciate you taking time out of your busy schedule to meet with me.”

She snorts. “Your facetiousness is noted,” she says. “And it’s really no trouble - I know it must be bad if you’re asking for _my_ help.”

He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. As always, she’s startlingly accurate. “Double homicide,” he mutters once his laughter is in check. From the corner of his eye, he sees her lean forward, too - if only slightly. “Both vics died from multiple stab wounds, but they were also shot in the head post-mortem. Execution style. Both bullet wounds had gunpowder burns along the edges, so it was extremely close-range.”

Amy clears her throat. “Any evidence?”

“Nothing substantial yet. Labs are still running tests on the bullets, but there were no casings on site, so it’s not likely to get me very far. Every surface in the house was wiped clean, which makes me think it was professional.”

“And the victims - were they related in any way?”

“Husband and wife, though they were apparently estranged and not on speaking terms, according to the neighbors. None of them heard anything, which again makes me think this was a professional job.” He turns his head slightly, peering at her sideways. “Any of this sound familiar to you?”

She narrows her eyes at him, lips pursed, and he could swear the gears turning in her head are visible even from here. “I know of a few people who might fit the bill,” she finally says, calculating eyes darting back to the opposite side of the underpass. “You got any leads?”

“A vendor who was set up across the street that night has given us a composite sketch, but we’re not sure how accurate it is, since he kept contradicting himself. We questioned him, too, but he checks out -”

“We?” Amy repeats.

He drops his head for a moment. “She’s my _partner_ , Santiago,” he says quietly.

“She doesn’t trust me.”

“Can you blame her? Most cops tend not to trust the badass vigilante types.” Amy scoffs, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. “Diaz has helped me cover for you more times than I can count, you know. She may not trust you, but she _does_ respect you.”

“I’m so honored.”

It’s his turn to roll his eyes. “Your facetiousness is noted,” he says in a high-pitched voice, and Amy’s responding glare could wilt the flowers sprouting up from the concrete beneath his feet. “Anyways, we have a composite sketch, but we haven’t released it yet since we haven’t been able to verify -”

“Let me see it.”

He pulls his phone from his pocket without another word, pulling the image up quickly and passing it off to her.

And the moment she seems to fully take it in, the color drains from her face.

“I don’t know him,” she says, all but shoving his phone back. Suddenly she’s edging away from him, leaning as far to the right as she can, attention darting and unfocused on the traffic around them. “Never seen anyone like that.”

“Hey,” he grabs her wrist and she whips back toward him, wrenching her arm from his grasp so quickly he barely registers the movement. “Wait, what’s going on?”

“I told you,” she snarls, “I don’t know him and I can’t help you.”

“Okay, it’s very obvious that you _do_ know him - or know _of_ him, at least - who is he? And why are you so scared of him?”

She’s panicking, like a rabbit caught in a trap, eyes wide and fists clenching and unclenching rapidly. “It’s not - I’m not - just -” a passing pedestrian trips over her foot and she lurches forward blindly, seizing at her ankle. “Just don’t, okay? Don’t pursue this, don’t - don’t.”

“What? Don’t pursue this? Are you serious?” She looks to be in agony, her expression so bald-faced he feels his own chest tingling with anxiety. “You’re the one who quit the Academy so that you could help people without all the stupid rules -”

“Rules aren’t stupid, it’s the bureaucratic red tape that contradicts and negates the rules that are meant to help people that are stupid, and that _isn’t the point,_ Peralta. Please, just - just _trust me_. This case is so much bigger than you could ever imagine -”

“Tell me his name, Santiago.” he interrupts firmly. She shakes her head, stubborn, and he inches closer. “Tell me why you’re scared of him.”

Her chest is heaving and she’s blinking rapidly, but she’s no longer scrambling to get away from him. “Look, there - there are bad guys, and there are villains. There’s crime, and then there’s _evil_. He -” she points to Jake’s phone still clutched in his hand “- is pure, unadulterated evil. Everything he stands for, everything he’s involved in, is evil. You need to let this go.”

“I can’t. Because those victims have families and those families deserve answers. And this guy deserves to be brought to justice. Him being evil is all the more reason for me to keep pursuing this. Someone has to bring him down.”

“Not you, Peralta.” she says firmly. “You’re not gonna be able to do this alone.”

“I won’t be alone, I’ll have -”

“Diaz won’t be enough,” she snaps. “He’s cunning and cruel and if he finds out that you’re pursuing him, neither one of you will stand a chance. _Please_ , Jake,” her voice cracks, and he’s paralyzed by the desperation in her eyes. “Don’t pursue this. Drop it. Forget it ever crossed your desk. _Please_.”

“Okay,” he hears himself say. The desperation has not diminished. “Okay, I’ll drop it. I promise.”

He offers her his pinky, and she stares down at it for a beat. Her chest is heaving slightly with the intensity of her urging, but after a moment she raises her hand and hooks her own pinky around his, squeezing firmly.

Her touch is far warmer than he was expecting.

And it isn’t until she’s walked away, disappeared into the flow of foot traffic, that he realizes that was the first time she’s ever called him by his first name.

* * *

His name is Freddy Maliardi.

It took a while - far longer than Jake was hoping - but after cross-referencing a dozen criminal databases nationwide, they get a hit on a mugshot marked as a close match out of California.

He served twelve years for aggravated assault, but that isn’t what interests him - what _does_ interest him are the twelve counts of alleged first degree murder, all of which were dropped during his trial due to insufficient evidence.

Maliardi is thin and sickly-looking in his mugshots, but his eyes are dark and glassy - almost dead.

And despite the fact that it’s just a grainy picture, Jake shivers, Amy’s words still ringing in his ears.

“So Santiago didn’t recognize him?” Rosa asks from the other side of the briefing room.

Jake grunts, feigning focus on finding a free thumbtack to add Maliardi’s mugshot to their steadily-growing evidence board. “He’s pretty average-looking,” he says evenly, “and the composite wasn’t the most accurate compared to the real thing.”

“True, although that doesn’t answer my question.” Her heavy combat boots scuff along the tile floor as she approaches, but he doesn’t look around; she pulls even with him and stops, surveying their evidence board with her arms crossed loosely over her middle. “It’s not solid enough to hold up in court, yet, but it’s a start,” she finally mutters. “Is Santiago working her _magic_ or should we start canvasing the scene?”

He clenches his jaw at the contempt in her tone, but stays quiet. His relationship with Amy has always been a bit of a thorn between himself and Rosa, though she seems to have less of a problem with it now than she did way back at the beginning, when Amy’s “anonymous tips” lead to him solving five cases in the amount of time it took her to solve one. “Let’s start with calling the vendor and asking him to come down to verify that this is who he saw that day,” he says. “No point in canvasing if we’ve got the wrong guy.”

He sees Rosa nod in his peripheral vision, but she remains rooted to the spot. “I’m sorry,” she finally mutters. “I know she’s...helpful.”

“She is,” Jake confirms quietly.

Again, Rosa nods. “Probably best to keep me in the dark, but is it safe to assume that we’re just getting the evidence trail and she’ll deliver this guy in a few days? Or -”

“She’s not helping this time,” Jake interrupts. “She took one look at the composite and freaked out. Said he’s pure evil. She didn’t want anything to do with him.”

“What, she’s scared of him?” Jake shrugs, eyes glued to the mugshot. “Why?”

“No idea. But I intend to find out.”

Rosa hovers for another moment, before stepping sideways toward the briefing room doors. “I’ll call the vendor and set up a time for him to come in,” she says, subdued.

Jake nods, jaw clenched, waiting until the doors are closed again. He approaches the evidence board slowly, until the mugshot is just inches from the end of his nose. Maliardi’s cold, dead eyes seem to track his every move.

“I’m sorry, Amy,” he whispers.

* * *

For all of her hidden depth and range of emotions, Rosa Diaz has never been one to succumb to terror. Fear in general is not an emotion she has to handle with any regularity; beyond her childhood, she’s hard pressed to pinpoint any one time she’s ever truly felt scared.

Until now.

Fear claws rhythmically up her throat, choking off her airway, and no matter how hard she concentrates on the feeling of her lungs expanding and contracting she can’t shake the feeling of suffocation. The shadows she’s currently shrouded in certainly aren’t helping, but she won’t leave them - she _can’t_ leave them.

Someone may recognize her.

The butt of her gun pressing hard against her palms is the one reassuring lifeline keeping her afloat amidst the shuddering darkness around her, and she grips it as hard as she can as voices approach, crest, and fade from the other end of the alley. She’s been waiting all of two minutes but already it feels like a lifetime - two minutes waiting are two minutes wasted, two minutes she’ll never get back, two minutes more of whatever he’s going through wherever he is -

“Diaz?”

Rosa jumps a foot in the air, nearly whipping her gun out despite the voice’s quiet, gentle tone. Amy Santiago stands ten feet away, hands raised in surrender, eyes wide and uncertain as Rosa heaves for breath. “Jesus _Christ_ ,” Rosa snarls, flattening her hand over her hammering heart.

“What’s going on?” Santiago asks slowly, hands still raised. “Where’s Jake?”

And even though adrenaline is still coursing through her veins, Rosa feels her heart squeezing mercilessly at the mention of her partner’s name. “I need your help,” she says quietly.

Somehow, Santiago’s alarm seems to double over. “Where’s Jake?” she repeats, stepping toward her carefully.

“Maliardi,” Rosa says, and even in the faint light she can see how quickly Santiago pales. “We were going to interview a witness to confirm the mugshot was who he saw on the scene, but Peralta got ahead of me ‘cause I had to go back to the car to get his stupid notebook, and by the time I caught up, I - I - they were shoving him into the trunk of a car -”

“How long have they had him?” Santiago’s voice has gone ragged, steely, like the sharpened edge of a serrated blade.

“Twelve hours,” Rosa says hoarsely.

Briefly, Santiago squeezes her eyes shut. “He’s still alive,” she finally says.

Something like relief briefly flares to life, like a match in the pit of a pitch-dark cave. “What makes you - how do you know?”

“Because they’re waiting for me.”

Ice floods through her entire body; without a second thought, Rosa rips her gun out of her jacket and points it directly between Santiago’s eyes.

To her credit, Santiago looks little more than annoyed. “Not like  _that_!” she snaps, but Rosa refuses to lower her gun. “They’re using him to draw me out and force me to intervene. They’ve been trying to get a reaction out of me for _months_ now, but I haven’t directly engaged. They must’ve figured out that Jake - that I -” she stops and presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. “He’s still alive because they’re waiting to kill him in front of me. Because they know that he’s - important to me.”

Slowly, Rosa lowers her gun, surprised at the genuine distress rolling off of her in waves. It’s been obvious for months now that Jake has been nursing a secret, hideously inappropriate crush on the morally-grey vigilante superhero-wannabe standing before her now, but never in a million years did she suspect that that superhero-wannabe would actually return those hideously inappropriate feelings.

“We’re doing everything we can on our end,” Rosa says, and Santiago nods, looking like she’s hanging off of Rosa’s every word. “We’ve put out APBs on Maliardi, the witness, and the car they drove off in, but it’s been hours and we’re no closer to finding them than we were at the very beginning. I know we’ll find him eventually, but I’m afraid - I’m afraid we might not be fast enough.”

“So you called me,” Santiago offers quietly when Rosa does not continue.

“I know you don’t really have any allegiance to me. We don’t have a lot of history, and what little we do have has been...complicated.” Santiago clenches her jaw, but says nothing else. “I know that you’re scared of Maliardi. I know there’s a history there that I don’t know about, that Jake doesn’t even know about, and I know that the idea of going after him alone is - is probably terrifying. I don’t have any right to ask for your help and I won’t pretend like I don’t need it. Because I do. I need your help, so badly. I know that I don’t stand a chance at solving this and saving him before something really bad goes down. He needs you, Amy. You’re the only chance he’s got - that any of us has got. Please, please help him.”

She swallows hard, gaze searching Rosa’s face. “You realize that if I get caught, they’ll kill him, right?” she asks, voice low. “I may be his only chance of getting out of this alive, but that’s only if I can get to him before they catch me. I’m his best chance, but I’m also his biggest liability. Are you sure?”

“Never been more positive of anything in my life,” Rosa answers quickly.

A beat passes, and then Amy nods, expression quickly slipping into a steely mask of grim determination. “Keep your phone on.” she mutters before backing into the shadows and disappearing from sight.

* * *

Through the haze of blood and agony, Jake tastes salt water.

He’s certain it’s a psychological by-product of the salty air blowing in through the busted window to the right of where he’s bound, whipping off the surface of the churning sea beyond it. It fades in and out of his senses, much like his consciousness, but it’s never stronger than it is when Maliardi is pounding the unyielding curve of his steel-toed boots into Jake’s ribs.

His hands are shaking where they’re bound behind his back and Jake gasps for air, grunts and moans of pain escaping his chest of their own volition. Maliardi paces back and forth before him, watching, those dark eyes all the more dead-looking now that they’re up-close and personal.

He’s been at this for hours, starting from the moment Jake lurched back to consciousness bound and gagged here on the floor. There are a half-dozen other men loitering around them, in varying degrees of engagement; a couple of them jeer and mock his screams, some snort with laughter, one has yet to look up from his phone.

That one’s the leader, Jake’s sure of it.

They haven’t really talked to him, outside of the taunts. It’s been clear to him since hour one that they’re waiting for someone - that torturing him is merely a way to pass the time.

He isn’t sure how much more of this he can take.

Maliardi kicks him again - inches from his groin - and Jake screams, biting down on his gag until he’s positive his teeth have cracked. The other men are laughing again, and Maliardi is grinning, and as the tears clear up from Jake’s vision, he registers that the leader has looked up from his phone for the first time all day.

“Enough,” the leader says, and Maliardi backs off at once, retreating to the far wall and leaning back with his hands folded behind him. “We need him alive until she gets here.”

“We’ve been waiting for hours,” one of the others pipes up timidly. “Shouldn’t she be here by now?”

“Maybe she isn’t coming,” another one says.

“She’ll be here,” the leader says calmly, knowingly.

Jake heaves down as much air as he can get through his nose, staring up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the conversation. It’s hard to track with his own noisy breathing and the pain radiating through his body, but he understands enough to know that he was correct in his suspicion that they’re waiting on someone.

And that the rest of his lifespan can be measured by that mystery woman’s commute to this warehouse.

It does not occur to him that she might just be his saving grace until after the gunfire has already started.

The world is narrow and unforgiving where he’s trapped flailing on his back, but somehow he remains relatively unscathed even as the volley of bullets exploding deeper in the bowels of this room whiz over his head and crack against the wall to his right. Voices, forever ingrained in his memory for all the taunting and jeering and the like, cry out in the kind of finality that sets his teeth on edge, but instinctively he knows that for every heavy thud of a body hitting the floor, he inches closer and closer to freedom.

As quickly as it started, it stops. And once again, he’s left struggling to hear anything over his own noisy breathing.

The footsteps that approach him are quicker and lighter than any other he’s heard all afternoon, and a split-second later his hazy vision is focusing in on Amy Santiago’s desperate, blood-spattered face. “I _told_ you to drop it,” she growls.

Despite her obvious rage, her fingers are exceedingly gentle where they work the gag out of his mouth. He gasps, lungs filling to capacity for the first time in hours, and lets his head fall back, content in knowing that she’s going to keep him safe. “When have I - _ever_ \- done what y-you - told me t’do?” he manages to rasp once his jaw has readjusted.

She tries to stay stoic, she really does, but he catches the exasperated smile that cracks through her glare, and it’s like fireflies flickering in the pit of his gut. Briefly, her hands frame his face, and then she’s scanning down the rest of his body, gingerly picking his shirt up away from his torso and examining what bits of skin she can see through the torn material of his jeans. “Nothing fatal,” she murmurs to herself as she gently touches his face again, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. “You definitely need medical attention, but you’re gonna be alright. Your team is on their way right now, they’ll be here soon.”

He hums out a broken note, eyes closed in relief and at her touch, relishing in the kindness of each gentle caress. “Good,” he mumbles, “I’m really tired.”

“I know you are,” she whispers. “Just rest, Jake. They’ll be here soon.”

Her hands are no longer on his face and he’s panicking, alone, in pain. “Amy!” he yelps, eyes flying open to find his view of the ceiling unobstructed. “ _Amy_!”

She’s there again, face contorted in alarm, hands warm and steady where they press into his chest. “It’s okay, Jake,” she says quickly, “it’s okay, it’s okay, calm down before you hurt yourself -”

“Please,” he gasps, “don’t go, d-don’t leave me -”

She stares, frozen, gaze burning. “I’m sorry, Jake,” she whispers, barely audible over the sirens quickly fading in from somewhere outside. “I have to go, I’m so sorry - I promise I’ll find you, okay? I swear, I _will_ find you.”

He can barely keep his vision focused, so close to the edge of unconsciousness is he; the last thing he sees is her leaning forward, her lips brushing against his forehead, and then -

And then, darkness.

* * *

He’s in and out over the next few hours, each foray into consciousness fleeting, but long enough to know that he’s in the hospital under protective custody, both from the officer standing guard outside his closed door and Rosa, who stubbornly refuses to leave his side. Others have filtered in and out, he’s heard their voices distorted through the filter of sleep; he learns from their quiet conversations that every person who was in the warehouse with him earlier is dead.

Including Freddy Maliardi.

And according to Captain Holt, they have absolutely no idea who is responsible. No idea who would mow through a room full of hardened criminals, including the kingpin of the Ianucci crime family, but leave him alive.

Rosa remains a steady fixture at his side even after visiting hours are over, slumped over in sleep when he briefly surfaces around midnight, clearly insistent on keeping vigil.

Which is why it’s so disorienting when she’s suddenly gone around 2 in the morning.

He blinks, trying to make sense of the empty space she seemingly just occupied. His senses are dulled from whatever painkillers are coursing through his veins, but he’s fairly certain he can’t hear any movement in the bathroom; for the first time since he woke up this morning, he’s alone.

At least, he’s alone until he hears the doorknob turning half a moment later.

It’s hard to tell through the darkness, but he’s pretty sure the person easing their way into the room is a woman. Not Rosa, though - her hair seems straight, no errant, wild curls to catch the moonlight spilling through the window on the opposite side of the room. The woman eases her way inside and quietly closes the door, and then pauses. He can feel her gaze on him, even from here.

“Who’s that?” he asks ( _slurs_ ).

“You’re awake?”

And now that he’s heard her voice, he feels a little silly for asking. “Amy?”

“Hey,” she crosses the distance between them quickly and claims Rosa’s seat, dragging it closer to the edge of the bed. And now that she’s inches away he can see more details through the darkness, like the way her concern seems to be fading with each second that passes or the way she nibbles on her lower lip subconsciously. “Rosa said you’ve been sleeping since you got here yesterday - how d’you feel?”

He hums. “Surprised,” he says after a moment, and her brows raise in an unvoiced question. “Didn’t know I’ve been here a whole day already.”

She nods, gaze drifting down his neck and chest. “You were pretty beat up,” she murmurs. “And you lost a lot of sleep working on the case. You needed it.”

Slowly, he reaches up, catching a lock of her hair between his fingers and gently tugging. “Are you okay?”

He sees her jaw clench as her eyes squeeze shut. “I will be,” she says after a moment, eyes fluttering open again to meet his gaze. “Knowing that you’re okay definitely helps.”

He swallows, letting her hair slip through his fingers, mesmerized at the silky texture. “You saved me,” he says softly.

She bites down on the inside of her cheek, her right hand gently closing over his forearm bent up toward her hair. “You needed me,” she murmurs, and he nods. “I couldn’t just leave you with them.”

He closes his eyes, the memories of the warehouse flashing through his mind, but he quickly banishes them; all that matters is Amy, now, and the slow, steady lines her fingers stroke into the skin of his forearm.

“I can’t stay long,” she whispers, and his eyes pop open again. “Rosa snuck me in, but I only have a few minutes before the other officer comes back -”

“I don’t want you to go,” he says quickly, and she slides her fingers around his forearm again, squeezing in what he thinks might be a reassuring way. “Please, you saved my life, and I - I want you to stay, please stay, _please_.”

“I can’t,” she breathes. “I’m so sorry, Jake, but I - I _can’t_. They might figure out it was me, and if I’m here with you when they figure it out then you’ll be in trouble, too -”

“It was self defense,” he argues, aware of the fact that his voice is rising in pitch and cracking from his own desperation. “You didn’t do it for fun, or because it felt good, you did it to protect yourself and to save me -”

“You’re right,” she says quickly, her voice low and soothing. “You’re right, you’re absolutely right. I didn’t do it because it felt good. But, Jake, the thing is...I’d do it over and over and over again if it meant keeping you safe. I’d do whatever it takes to keep you safe. And right now, the best thing I can do for you to keep you safe is to get as far away from you as possible. Right or wrong, I’m responsible for what happened in that warehouse, and I - I refuse to let you and your career be collateral damage for my actions.”

“But I don’t want you to leave,” he all but whimpers.

“It won’t be forever,” she says softly, free hand reaching to gently card through the curls that have fallen against his forehead. “I just need to lay low for a while, until all of this blows over. I promise you, it won’t be for long. And you have my number - if you _ever_ need _anything_ , I’m just a call or a text away. No matter what.”

He bites his tongue, trying and failing to distract himself from the sharp emotions jutting up his throat and welling in his eyes. “This isn’t fair,” he mutters as the first tears fall.

Her smile is melancholic, and it makes his heart ache. “You’re starting to sound like me, now,” she murmurs, thumb brushing over his forehead. “Don’t pull too hard at that thread - they need good cops like you on the force.”

He swallows thickly, fingers still tugging on her hair. Slowly, he increases the pressure, until she acquiesces and bends her spine a little more. She pauses with less than three inches between the ends of their noses, searching, waiting.

He lifts his hand up through her hair to the back of her head, pulling her down to close the distance, meeting her lips in a slow, sweet kiss. The fireflies that ignited in the pit of his gut before are spreading quickly, bursting through every inch of his body, buzzing with excitement and tenderness and affection as her fingers slowly curve around the back of his neck.

She pulls away much too soon, leaving him aching for more. She looks winded when he manages to pry his own eyes open; winded and vulnerable, and maybe, just a little bit hopeful.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” she murmurs, fingers tangling with his as she stands beside his bed.

“Promise?”

A shy smile spreads across her face as her pinky hooks through his and squeezes. “I promise,” she echoes with a nod. “I’ll see you soon.”

He resists the urge to reach for her as she retreats back toward the door, holding his breath until she’s out of the room and the door has clicked shut behind her. He releases it in a long, loud exhale, vision blurry as he stares up at the ceiling.

Rosa makes her way inside a few minutes later, the whites of her eyes visible with the steadily increasing light coming in through the window. “You alright?” she asks, paused at the foot of his bed.

“Yeah,” he grunts, still staring at the ceiling. “Kinda screwed up that she has to go into hiding, now. But I’ll be fine.”

“It’s not fair,” Rosa agrees as she drops into her seat. “She risked a lot to save you, and now it’s like she’s being punished for that. It’s fucked up.”

He turns his head to look at her head-on. “It _is_ fucked up,” he murmurs softly.

She flashes him a half-smile that almost touches her eyes. “So what’re you gonna do now?”

He inhales through his nose, gaze flicking back up to the ceiling. “I’m gonna wait for her,” he says steadily.

Rosa’s quiet for a beat. “It could take years,” she says quietly.

“I know. I don’t care, though. She’s worth the wait.”

“She won’t expect you to wait. Sacrificial lamb complex and all that.”

“I know that, too. That’s part of why I - y’know.” He clears his throat, and Rosa offers him a plastic cup full of half-melted ice chips. “I don’t care how long it takes,” he says, waving his hand in refusal. “She’s worth it. All of it.”

Rosa seems to contemplate it in silence for a while. “I’m starting to agree,” she finally murmurs.

* * *

He doesn’t see her again for eight months.

When he does finally spot her, she’s alone, standing still in the midst of a sea of pedestrians, her face like a beacon in the night despite everything that stands between them.

He forgets what he’s doing, why he’s there, who he’s with. His entire world narrows down to her, standing on the sidewalk, less than a block between them.

A slow, hesitant smile begins to spread across her face.

It grows to blinding proportions by the time he actually reaches her.

He wastes no time once his arms are around her, kissing her thoroughly, momentarily forgetting they’re on a sidewalk surrounded by people. She doesn’t seem to care, either - she kisses back enthusiastically, hands curling along the back of his head and neck, respectively, anchoring him to her.

And in an instant, every last ounce of heartache from the last eight months is eradicated.

“Please tell me you’re staying,” he gasps when their lips finally part. “Please say you’re staying.”

“I’m staying,” she breathes, fingers squeezing tighter. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And just like every other promise she’s made to him, she keeps this one, too.


End file.
